I Don't Want To Be Ill, I Just Don't Want To Be Invisible

My name's Mark, and you're listening to Headstraight. Hello, you lot, and welcome back. Today, we're talking about something that is not talked about very often. And when it is, I notice that young people come to me with a sense of embarrassment or guilt about it. So what we're talking about today is what will happen if I get well.

Will people still notice me? Because there's something about this that can be really easy to misunderstand because you can genuinely want to feel better and still feel a bit uneasy about what getting better might actually mean. You can feel tired of maybe feeling anxious or low or frightened, whatever it is that's been going on for you. You can be fed up with appointments, fed up with people asking questions, fed up with your whole life seeming to revolve around how you're feeling. You can absolutely want things to change.

But while all of that is happening, you might also start to notice that when things are bad, people maybe behave differently around you. They check-in more. They ask more questions. They make more time for you, and maybe your parents become a bit softer with you. Maybe your friends message more often or school suddenly starts listening properly.

People who didn't always seem to notice before might now be paying a lot more attention to you. And I think that's where this can become quite complicated because it's not necessary that you want to be unwell. It's not that you've suddenly decided that struggling is a really good way of getting people to care about you. That would be far too simple. It's more that you begin to notice a pattern.

When you're struggling, people come closer. When things are really bad, people stop and pay more attention. So then when you start to feel a little better, another thought can begin to creep in. What happens now? Do people still check-in?

Do they still make time for me? Do they still notice when something is wrong even if it's not a crisis? Or does everybody just slowly go back to normal and just take it that because you're doing better, you don't need them the same way anymore? Now I think that can leave you with a question that's actually quite different to admit because even saying it out loud can make you worry about what it says about you. But I think that for some people, the question is there anyway.

If I get better, will you forget about me? Now, I think that one of the important things here is that this pattern probably doesn't start with you thinking, if I struggle, people will pay attention to me. No. Most of the time, it's much less obvious than that. It's something that you notice over time, often without really meaning to notice it at all.

Maybe before things became difficult, you were the one who just got on with things. Maybe you were expected to cope or you were seen as the easy one in the family. Or maybe there were lots of things going on around you and other things just took priority. You might not even have thought of yourself as being ignored. It may have just felt normal that you kept things to yourself and just carried on.

Then something changes. You start struggling more obviously, and people respond. They ask how you are. They wanna know what's going on. They spend more time with you.

Maybe conversations that never really happened before suddenly start happening because now there's a reason for them to happen. And from the way that you see it, that can feel very powerful. Not because being unwell is somehow enjoyable, because clearly it's not, but because you are getting something that may have been missing before. You've been noticed. People are slowing down around you.

You're no longer having to work quite so hard to show that something matters. The difficulty is that your brain can start to join those things together. Struggling becomes linked with being cared for. Crisis is linked with closeness. Being unwell becomes linked with people staying near you.

Now that doesn't mean that you planned it. It doesn't mean that you are manipulating anyone. It just means that a pattern has formed. And once that pattern is there, getting better can feel, well, a bit more complicated than people on the outside might expect. Now this is probably the point where some of you might start to feel a bit uncomfortable because once you begin to notice that being unwell has brought people closer, it can be really easy to turn that into something much harsher.

You might start asking yourself whether that means you are exaggerating, whether you are making more of things than you needed to, or whether somewhere along the line, you've been keeping this going because of the attention that came with it. Now I don't think it's that simple. You can be genuinely struggling and still get something from the way people respond to that struggle. Both things can be true at the same time. You can hate how anxious you feel and still feel safer when somebody stays with you because of it.

You can genuinely feel low and still notice that people are more gentle with you when they know that you're not coping. You can be having a really difficult time and still feel relieved that, for once, people are paying attention. Now that doesn't make the distress fake. It doesn't suddenly mean that none of it was real. And I think sometimes we get caught in this idea that there has to be one explanation for why somebody is struggling, when actually people are much, much more complicated than that.

Something can hurt you and still do something for you at the same time. And I think that distinction matters because if you then decide, well, maybe I'm just doing this for attention, you can end up feeling ashamed of needing people at all. You might stop talking, stop asking for help, or start trying to prove that you're not one of those people who needs too much. And none of that really gets us any closer to understanding what's going on. For me, the more useful question isn't, is this real or am I doing it for attention?

It's more like, what is it about the attention that I'm getting that feels so important to me? Because that's where we start to move away from blame and towards something that you can actually understand. I think the word attention causes problems here because we tend to use it as though it explains everything. Somebody does something worrying. Someone else says that they're doing it for attention, and suddenly that becomes the whole story.

But attention isn't really one thing. And I think if we stop here, we miss what the person might actually be looking for. Because maybe it's not about wanting everybody focused on you. Maybe it's about wanting somebody to stay. Maybe it's about wanting reassurance that you matter or feeling safer when somebody is close by or knowing that somebody has noticed that you're having a hard time without you having to explain every part of it.

Sometimes what looks like wanting attention might actually be wanting comfort, protection, understanding, or simply some sense that you're important to someone. And I think that's where the language can become a bit unfair because saying someone is attention seeking can make a very human need sound like a character flaw. Most of us want to be noticed by people who matter to us. Most of us want to know that if things are difficult, someone will care. The difference is that some people may have learned that the only time that they reliably get that care is when things have gone badly wrong.

And if that's the pattern that you've experienced, then it makes sense that crisis can start to carry more than one meaning. It's still distressing. It's still something you may desperately want to stop. But at the same time, it might also be the moment when people finally slow down, become more available, and make it clear to you that you matter. So perhaps the better question isn't, why do I want so much attention?

Maybe it's this. What am I actually needing from people when they're giving me that attention? Because once you can begin to answer that, you're not just looking at the behavior anymore. You're starting to understand the need underneath it. Now there's another part of this that I think could be quite difficult to notice because over time, the way people see you can start to shape the way that you see yourself.

You might become the one people worry about, the one who needs checking in on, the one who is treated a little differently because everybody knows that you've been having a hard time. And sometimes that role can start to feel very familiar. Not necessarily comfortable, but familiar. You know where you fit. You know what people expect from you.

You know how they're likely to respond when you're struggling. And there can be something really unsettling about the idea of losing that. Because if you're no longer the person everybody is worried about, then who are you in that group? What is your place in the family? What is your place with your friends?

And I think this is where getting better can sometimes create a kind of empty space that people don't always talk very much about. Everyone else may be pleased that things are improving, but you might be left trying to work out who you are without the problem that has taken up so much room. And if being unwell has also been the thing that's brought people closer, then that change can feel even bigger. For me, this is why I would be really careful about assuming that somebody who struggles again doesn't want to get better. Sometimes it might be that getting better changes more than the symptoms.

It can change relationships, routines, expectations, and even the way that you understand yourself. And that's a lot to adjust to. Because maybe the question is not just can I cope without this? It might also be, who am I if this is no longer the thing people know me for? Now I think we often talk about getting better in terms of what you gain.

You feel less anxious, less overwhelmed, more able to cope, more able to get on with your life, and, of course, all of that matters. But I'm not sure that we talk enough about what somebody might feel that they're losing at the same time. Because if being unwell has met people check-in on you, spending more time with you, being gentle with you, giving you a bit more space, then improvements can come with a worry that all of that is gonna disappear. Maybe people start asking less. Maybe appointments become less frequent.

Maybe school expects more from you again. Maybe your family relaxes because they think the difficult bit has passed. And from the outside, that can look positive. Everyone is relieved. Things are getting back to normal.

But from your side, normal might not feel entirely reassuring. Normal might be the place where people stopped noticing before. And I think that is why somebody can want to get better and still feel unsettled when they do. It's not necessary that they want the illness back. It might be that they're worried about losing the closeness, the reassurance, the understanding, or that sense of being important to people that came with it.

That can be a really confusing thing to hold because you might feel guilty for even thinking it. You might think that you should just be grateful that you're improving. But if part of recovery feels like people are slowly stepping away, then it makes sense that some part of you might resist that, even if another part of you desperately wants life to move forwards. And I think this is where the question becomes a bit clearer. What am I frightened will disappear when people decide that I'm doing better?

Because sometimes the thing that you're scared of losing is not the illness. It's the care that came with it. This is where we have to be careful not to make this all about the young person because relationships play a part in this too. Families, friends, schools, and professionals can all end up reinforcing the pattern without really meaning to. Not because they're doing anything deliberately wrong, but because people naturally respond more strongly when something feels urgent.

If you're in a crisis, people make time. They rearrange things. They check-in. They ask more questions. They stay close.

But when things settle, that intensity usually drops away. From the outside, that makes complete sense. People think, well, things are getting better now, so we can maybe step back a bit. The problem is that if the closeness only ever appears when things are really bad, then that can quietly teach you something about when care is available to you. You might also be someone who is praised for coping well.

Maybe people say how strong you are, how independent you are, how well you manage things. And while that can sound positive, it can also mean that when you're doing okay, people assume that you don't need so much from them. And then when you're struggling, suddenly everyone becomes more available again. The same thing can happen with friendships. Someone may message you constantly when they know that you're having a terrible time, but once things improve, the contact becomes less frequent.

Again, that doesn't necessarily mean that the friendship is bad or that anyone is deliberately withdrawing. It just means the difference between crisis and ordinary life can become really quite noticeable. And I think professionals can fall into this as well. We're often really good at asking about risk, symptoms, and what's gone wrong because, obviously, those things matter. But if all of the attention is focused on the crisis and much less attention is paid to who you are when things are going well, then it can accidentally reinforce the idea that the struggling version of you is the one that people are most interested in.

Now none of this means that your family caused your difficulties or that your friends or professionals are responsible for keeping you unwell. That would be just too simple. But I do think that it's worth recognizing that relationships can teach us things without anyone ever intending to teach them. And if the message that you have picked up is people come closer when I'm falling apart, then part of getting better might need to include learning something new, that people can still stay close when you're not ill. I think this is probably one of the hardest parts of the whole conversation because once you start to recognize some of these patterns, it can be really easy to turn that understanding against yourself.

You might start thinking, well, that means that I must be manipulative or maybe I've been making things worse, or even maybe I should just not ask for help anymore because people are gonna think that I'm just doing it for the attention. I don't think that's where this needs to go. Understanding that being unwell has sometimes bought you care, closeness, or reassurance doesn't mean that your struggles weren't real, and it doesn't mean that you should suddenly stop talking about them. If anything, it gives you a bit more information about what might be happening underneath the surface because there's a massive difference between saying, I'm choosing to be unwell because I like the attention, and saying this. When I'm unwell, people stay close to me, and I'm frightened of losing that.

Now those are not the same thing at all. One's an accusation. The other is an attempt to understand what you need. And I think that really matters because shame can make this whole pattern harder to change. If you decide there's something wrong with you for wanting people to care, then you're much less likely to talk openly about the part of this that actually needs attention.

You might hide what you're feeling, pull away, or try to prove that you can manage everything on your own, and that can leave you even more isolated. So rather than asking yourself, what's wrong with me for needing this? I think it might be more useful to ask yourself this. What am I actually needing from people that I'm scared of losing? Maybe it is the reassurance.

Maybe it is the closeness. Maybe it is knowing that somebody will still make time for you. And maybe it's simply wanting to feel important to somebody when there's no crisis, no emergency, and nothing dramatic happening. And if you can begin to work that out, then the conversation starts to change. It becomes less about whether you are too needy or attention seeking and more about finding a way to ask for the thing underneath without having to become more unwell to get it.

Now I think one of the most useful things about recognizing this pattern is that it gives you the chance to start putting words around what you actually need. And that doesn't mean that you suddenly have to sit somebody down and explain everything perfectly. No. No. No.

Sometimes it might just mean being a little more direct about the part that you're frightened of losing. You might say something like, I know that I'm doing better, but I still need you to check-in sometimes. Or I don't want you to worry about me all the time, but I also don't want everything to disappear just because I'm coping better. You might even be able to say, I miss how close we were when things were really difficult, and I don't want us to lose that. I think those conversations can matter because they separate two things that might have become tangled together.

You might want less distress without wanting less connection. You can need less crisis support without suddenly not ending up with no one at all. Getting better doesn't have to mean proving that you can now manage everything on your own. And maybe that's part of what recovery needs to look like here. Not just taking away the crisis, but finding other ways for you to feel noticed, cared about, and important when nothing has gone badly wrong.

I think there's another part of this that can take a little bit longer. Because if being unwell has become one of the main ways people understand you, then part of moving forwards is allowing other parts of you to take more space again. And that doesn't mean pretending the difficult stuff never happened, and it's not about reinventing yourself. It's more about giving people the chance to know you for other things as well. Your sense of humor, the things that you care about, what annoys you, what you're good at, what you're interested in, the kind of person you are when nobody's asking how you're feeling.

And I think that matters because being seen shouldn't only happen when you're in pain. You shouldn't have to be at your worst for people to notice that you're there. And sometimes that shift will come from people around you making more effort to stay connected when things are ordinary. Sometimes it's gonna come from you letting other parts of yourself be seen a little bit more. And usually, it's probably a bit of both.

The important thing is that recovery shouldn't leave you feeling as though the version of you that needed help was the only version worth paying attention to. And I think there's something important here for the people around you as well because getting better shouldn't mean that everybody suddenly steps away. Of course, support will change. Appointments might become less frequent. People might worry less, and you might start doing more for yourself again.

That's part of moving forward. But there's a difference between support changing and connections disappearing. Parents, friends, schools, and professionals need to be careful that they don't only become interested when things are going badly. It matters that people still ask you how you are when there's no crisis, still spend time with you when nothing dramatic is happening, and still make space for conversations that are not about symptoms, risk, or whether you're coping. Because if the only version of you that gets everyone's attention is the version that's struggling, then it becomes much harder to believe that you matter when you are well.

And for me, this is probably one of the most important parts of this whole conversation. Getting better should mean that you need less crisis support. It should not mean that you become less important. But I do wanna be careful with something here because recognizing this pattern doesn't mean that you should start doubting yourself every time things get worse. If you're struggling more, feeling unsafe, thinking about hurting yourself, or finding that things are becoming harder to manage, then it still matters that you need to tell somebody.

The point of this conversation is not to make you second guess whether your distress is real enough. It's all about recognizing that sometimes more than one thing can be happening at the same time. You can genuinely need help, and you can also be frightened of losing the care, closeness, or attention that comes with that help. I think both of those things deserve to be understood. Now I think if there's one thing that I want you to take from this episode, it's that being frightened of getting better doesn't automatically mean that you want to stay unwell.

Sometimes what you're frightened of is what might disappear with getting well. The checking in, the closeness, the sense that people are paying attention, the feeling that for once you don't have to work so hard to make people understand that you need them. And maybe that's worth being honest about. Because getting better shouldn't mean proving that you no longer need anyone. It shouldn't mean that everybody suddenly backs away and assumes that you're fine.

And it shouldn't mean that the only version of you people know how to care for is the version that's struggling. So maybe the question to sit with is not simply, do I want to get better? Maybe it's this. What do I still need from the people around me when I'm doing better? Because that might be the part that needs protecting as things begin to change.

And if that's true for you, then maybe the fear underneath all of this is not really what if I get better? Maybe it's this. If I get better, will you still see me? Next week, we have a different question. Are you up for it?

Of course, you are.